Recollection
by Dorminchu
Summary: The line between memory and dreams is blurred. Lance-centric, based loosely off of episode six: Shaman of Fear.
You haven't been sleeping much lately. Neither has Ilana.

You try to think about what Octus said but it's harder to think when you're in a mind-numbing fuzz. Your attempts to think about Octus carry you all through first period and the teacher ignores you.

You try not to imagine how nice it would be to sit in the back of Mrs. Brewer's class in the nice warm sun and fall into a dreamless reverie. You don't even have that class until fourth period.

You scowl, shake yourself a little. You have to focus. Ilana and Octus are depending on you.

You're grateful when the bell rings. You trudge out of the class and into the hall with the rest of your classmates. The extent of your exhaustion is dangerous; you bump into someone and you're about to apologize when you stop mid-thought.

It's not a jock like you thought. Not anyone you recognize from your classes. In fact, you're pretty well convinced that you fell asleep in first period, because this shouldn't be possible. The teacher will undoubtedly smack your desk any minute now and yell at you to get out, does this look like a sleeping class?—and the other kids will probably laugh and you won't care, because nightmares or no, you have other things to worry about besides keeping up apperances.

But you aren't woken up, and a ghost in your father's skin towers over you. Even at sixteen, you're only able to come up to his chest.

"Hello, son."

He looks wrong. The flesh on his face is ash-pale and pulled too tight over his skull. He looks like a corpse in a lab coat.

You stare at the man that is not your father and try to come up with something to say.

"You trust me, don't you son?"

Your mouth is dry. You close it and another voice speaks, much younger.

"Father?"

You spin around and you know you have to be dreaming this, because now you can see the kid in the crowd of high-schoolers, a tiny, nine-year old version of you, right down to the little vest, the shorts, the dress shirt you couldn't quite button at the bottom so you shoved it all into your waistband and buckled your belt over that, hoping no one would notice. You remember these things so clearly even though it's been years, and you haven't woken up yet. Maybe you're in the school infimary because you tripped and hit your head. Some bodyguard you are.

Before you can convince yourself that this anything other than a dream, the kid version of you vanishes. And suddenly you can think. You chase after him, push other kids out of the way and ignore their angry protests. He's on the stairs, looking at you forlornly. You dash up after him, two steps at a time, and he's in the hall, always in sight, just out of reach.

You're on the second floor and he turns around at the very end of the hall. Maybe if you can grab him you will wake up. You have to wake up.

You're almost there. Something in your gut you to slow down before you get to the corner. Your heart pounds in your chest as you slow down and stop. You realize you're shaking as you peer around the lockers.

Kid Lance is gone. You look back and he's nowhere to be seen.

You turn and your heart stops for a second. You've never really understood that phrase up until now, because it's illogical—but it definitely skips a beat, or two.

The thing from your dreams is right there in the middle of Sherman High's hallway and no one can see it but you. Same hood, same weird smokey robes. But it's there. And you know it's looking for you.

You spin around so quickly your head and shoulders smack the metal locker behind you. You press yourself against it and pray it hasn't seen you.

Because if it sees you you'll have to run and—

There's a shriek that isn't human, and more follow. Alarms. The lights are flashing and you are paralyzed with a familiar dread.

There was a window at the end of the hall. You don't think about Ilana or Octus or the mission. You just bolt.

The classrooms are cells and the doors fly open. They're unlocked and you know that there are dead men inside. And red men spill out to replace them and surround you, climbing the walls and the ceiling and running on all fours. They have scales and raw skin and teeth like dogs.

You're running, you're a fast kid, but they are not like you. They close you off. Surround you, and you know you won't make it out alive. You see one crawl towards you and you watch as it leaps higher than anyone you've ever seen in real life and then it's on top of you with its claws piercing your limbs and its mouth wide open in a snarl and it smells like death and disinfectant—

You shut your eyes and wait for its teeth to sink into your jugular.

But it lets go, leaves your limbs stinging with phantom pain. You curl up tighter into yourself with something close to a whimper and expect others to tear you apart.

Nothing happens.

The alarms have stopped. Your head is still ringing.

At some point you stop shaking. Open your eyes and there's only the glare of the morning sun on the tile below you, many pairs of legs and frightened eyes. You jolt, look up and half-expect another red monster to tackle you.

You see your classmates instead.

They all stare for a moment while you continue to hyperventilate. Some of them start whispering. Most try to pretend nothing happened.

Ilana, you think, and feel sick. You have to find her before something else happens. You're calm enough now that you can stand, and with your destination in mind, you start running again.


End file.
